Shadows over Baker Street
by Nighttime-words
Summary: When Giulia - a new in town girl in desperate need of an accommodation, walks through the door of 221B Baker Street for the first time, she is catapulted into a mysterious, fascinating world populated by dark shadows which seem to haunt her. She'd better keep an eye out because Baker Street never sleeps... and neither do criminals.
1. Brief Introduction

Hello!

After watching Sherlock season 4, I started imagining random scenes and plausible dialogues that could fit in the show.

They all seemed to belong to the past, though; so I came up with the idea of a fan-fiction set in season 2, approximately between The Hounds of Baskerville and The Reichenbach Fall.

Even though I enjoyed season 4, I admit that I miss the old days.

However, the main reason why I decided to set the story during Season 2 (before the Fall, the wedding, Eurus and the destructive _emotional context_ ) is that I needed Sherlock to be the "cold" sociopath he was at the beginning.

So just keep in mind that he still has to grow up _emotionally_.

In short, if you want to jump back in time to discover brand new adventures and cases, and meet original characters along with the ones you already know, try to flip through the first pages and tell me what you think!

Feedbacks (of any kind) would be highly appreciated.

Thank you for your attention.  
Let's get started!


	2. 1 Baker Street

Second day in London.  
1162 miles away from home (1870 kilometres, to be precise).

 **London, UK** : the beginning of a new life.

 _Not a great start, after all._

Waking up and starting to get dressed, Giulia mentally summarises her to-do list:

1\. University Orientation

2\. Book shopping

3\. Finally, the thing that worries her most: finding an accommodation before spending all her money on that hotel room.

The day passes quickly and, after the successful accomplishment of the first two points of her list, she decides it is time to deal with that last, terrifying matter.

She wanders around the city examining five different options, with a disheartening result: some are far too expensive and the others... _Out of the question_.  
A complete waste of time.

She sighs disconsolate and looks down at the creased sheet of paper in her hand.  
Below the checked names suggested by her new friends, there is one last address: possibly her last hope.  
 _Baker Street._

By the time she arrives in front of the black door, it is starting to get dark and cold.

She is about to knock when the door bursts open, and a man with a shocked expression on his face rushes out of it, bumping into her.

He mumbles something, but when she catches the meaning of his words, he has already disappeared around the corner of the street.

"Good evening. Anybody in?" she asks stepping through the open door.

A lady with a warm smile appears in the darkened corridor, "Hello dear! May I help you?"

"Yes, please, ma'am. I'd like to have some information about renting..."

She is cut short in the middle of the sentence by the sound of footsteps coming frantically down the stairs.

"Dear God, he has no respect!" a corpulent woman complains before marching out the door.

At that moment, a dirty-blond-haired man appears on the landing at the top of the stairs and shouts out, "Wait!", but the woman has already disappeared into the night.

"Oh, John, what has he been doing all day?" the kind woman asks him regretfully.

"You know, Mrs Hudson: just being _himself_ " he sighs.

"Was she the fifth or the sixth potential tenant?" she inquires again looking at the front door just slammed.

"The seventh. God help me!" he rolls up his eyes, before looking down at the confused girl standing in the hall.

"Is she the next one?"

"Let's hope she is _the one_ " Mrs Hudson replies before turning to the young woman next to her and whispering kindly, "I think it's your turn, dear. Go on up: they're waiting for you."


	3. 2 Deduction time

The girl climbs up the stairs and follows John beyond an open door and into a messy living room.

"Good evening. I am Doctor John Watson, and this is Sherlock Holmes" he tries to break the ice pointing at the man with dark curly hair and piercing eyes sitting silently in a black armchair.  
Then he sinks into another armchair and nods at an empty seat in front of him.

She places down her bag and sits quickly.

"Hi, my name is..." she begins before being interrupted.

"Not interested, thanks. I already know everything about you" the dark-haired man mutters bored.  
"You are an exchange student just moved to London. You believe that this experience could mark the beginning of an entirely different life, yet you are afraid of feeling homesick."

"Sorry?" the girl asks astonished.

The man glances at her and nods at her body, "Brand new clothes to help you feel different, but worn-out shoes; I suppose you must be sentimentally attached to them.  
Now, what was I saying... _exchange student_ , right. You came here to attend a prestigious university: I recognise the coat of arms on the tag recently stuck on your bag."

John frowns his brows. "Exchange student?"

"Obviously. There's a flyer with an evocative expression peeping out of the front pocket of her bag: ' _Welcome to the UK_ _'._ Nevertheless, her foreign accent could have revealed it, as well."

"What foreign accent? I didn't catch that."

"Clearly" he breaths out and turns again to the girl. "As for your nationality, I would say Spanish or Italian. I'm not sure about which one _yet._ After all, you've barely pronounced five words."

"That's impressive!" she exclaims.

"Definitely Italian" he comments right away. "A foreign student, then, attending an expensive university but looking for a flat: you high value your education and are willing to make a sacrifice, yet you don't want to waste money on campus facilities, which explains why you're searching for something cheaper.  
And that leads me to another point: you made new friends at the university today."

"Today?" John interrupts.

"Of course she went there _today_ : the flyer again, John! Besides, she's trying to acclimatise and meet new people. Well, let me just say that some of them are very trustworthy, but I would forget about the others."

"How can you possibly know that?" John looks at him in disbelief.

"The name on the shopping bag. An excellent bookstore, little known, though. Only a friendly, helpful Londoner could have given such a piece of advice."

"What about the untrustworthy ones?" John asks again.

"Natural deduction. She came to _Baker Street_ looking for a cheap accommodation. By the way, you should know, Miss, that whoever told you to get here was trying to make a fool of you: this is central London, the rents are very expensive."

"Not at 221B" John instantly adds with a smile.

"Technically, we are going to rent out 221 **C** , the room Mrs Hudson refurbished completely after the discovery of Carl Powers's trainers. But let me go on, I'm almost enjoying this conversation."

The dark-haired man meets her eyes and grins falsely. "You've recently lost weight; although, you still cross your arms and legs as if you wanted to hide your body. Probably an unconscious leftover of the time you were ashamed of it."

"Sherlock, that's simply a defensive position: it's basic psychology" the dirty-blond man contradicts him.

"Sure, but she's trying to keep control over herself. She is hungry, it's evident: she shot several glances at the coffee table with tea and biscuits, but she didn't ask for them."

"Politeness?"

"Rigor. After every gaze, she looks down. A visible sign of shame. She thinks she mustn't desire food; she has to resist. I bet she hasn't eaten much, probably just a fruit."

"OK, you're making that up" John bursts out.

"Kiwi, wasn't it?" Sherlock asks her completely ignoring his friend.

She looks dazed at him, "What?"

"Your lunch. I recognised the distinctive scent the moment you walked it. You peeled it, and its odour remained on your fingers. However, why eating so little when you've already reached your goal?  
Fear of gaining weight again, of course.  
As I said before, new trousers: a different size. You cannot let yourself getting fat."

John makes another attempt to put an end to that surreal conversation, "Are we done now?"

"In a moment. You've got a boyfriend."

"A boyfriend?" John inquires confused.

"Well, back in Italy, of course. She has only been in London for a few days. Now look at her ring: she's playing with it, moving it from one finger to the other. Her feverish activity means she's nervous and she needs a familiar object, possibly connected to a pleasant memory, to calm her down. I am not genuinely surprised by her mood, though, since I am the one who's making her uncomfortable.  
But let's focus on that piece of jewellery: she brushes her index against the internal surface suggesting it isn't completely smooth. There must be an engraving of some sort, maybe a name or a date related to someone very close to her.  
A traditional, bright ring with an inscription inside and a sentimental attachment to it... _Boyfriend_ " he infers confidently.

"It seems plausible" John agrees.

"Can I give it a closer look?" Sherlock asks leaning toward her.

She places her ring in his palm without a word. He turns it over in his fingers, then analyses the internal engraving.

He wrinkles his nose, baffled. "Giulia" he reads it out loud.

"It doesn't sound like a boy's name" John replies biting his lips.

"It's not. Maybe... a girlfriend then?"

"I'm afraid you got that wrong, Mr Holmes. Not everything, by the way; that ring _does mean_ a lot to me, and it was, in fact, a gift from a special person. Not a boyfriend nor a girlfriend, though. (The latter is definitely not my thing, for the record).  
My mother gave it to me on my eighteenth birthday. As for the name, this is **my name** , actually. But how could you know since you weren't interested in listening to it earlier?" she says with a sarcastic smile.

"Checkmate" John giggles at Sherlock who glares at him.

"Fine. Last deduction: you are a volleyball player."

"Volleyball?" John looks surprised that his friend still wants to rub it in.

Sherlock, for his part, keeps an incomprehensible expression: his poker face.

"Look at her. Toned muscles, so we know that she exercises. But to identify the sport, we have to look for clues.  
 _Micro-fractures and traumatised fingers_.  
It could have been an accident, but _no_ , those injuries have occurred on separate occasions and have been treated differently.  
Although, it may suggest other disciplines, such as boxing or martial arts; statistically less likely, but I don't want to leave any margin of error.  
Let's jump to the arms, then. Right biceps more developed than the left one; it's clearly the dominant arm. Thus, she uses it when the action requires considerable strength and effort. Finally, look at her shoulders and back. She's sitting up straight, though her joint is slightly out of alignment: she must have suffered from a shoulder dislocation."

John stares intently at her, professionally judging the medical treatment she received over the years.

"And what's the matter with her back? I can't spot any clear flaw"

"Simply aching. It was evident when she set down her heavy bag: a backache is very common among volleyball players" Sherlock explains almost absent-mindedly.

"OK, but there could be another option."

It takes Sherlock a moment to understand the meaning of those words. "What?"

John tries to hold back a smile. "Considering all the things you've highlighted, volleyball is an undoubtedly reasonable explanation. However, there could be another possible sport, given her developed right arm, the injured shoulder and the backache: tennis."

Sherlock nods pleased, "Good point, John, an interesting observation.  
But no, it's surely volleyball."

"How can you be certain?" he argues annoyed.

"The ball on her key tag: unmistakable."

John follows his friend's look and sighs, "That's cheating!"

"That's _observing_. Volleyball, then. Not competitive level, though."

"Excuse me?" Giulia bursts out after being x-rayed and examined like a lab rat for several minutes.

Sherlock doesn't get agitated and replies firmly, "With all due respect, you are not tall enough to be a pro. Even John could deduce this one."


	4. 3 Child

There is a moment of silence, when John looks hastily at Sherlock, then turns to Giulia with despair in his eyes.

"I am truly sorry for that... all of it. This is the part where he plays the role of the _mind-reader_."

Sherlock tosses his head offended and retorts, "I don't read minds, John; I read details, clues, clothes, behaviours."

"You read people like books" says Giulia startled.

"Yes, I do, and it seems like I've already finished all your pages."

Sherlock turns his back to her to look out the window.

"Well... Thank you for letting me skip presentations: I'm awful at them" she unexpectedly comments with a smile.

John snaps his head up, confused. "And _this_ is usually the part where everyone leaves outraged" he clears his throat.

She frowns, "Why so? Why are people always so scared of the truth?"

Sherlock turns to her again, intrigued by her words. "Good question. I expect they simply fear a stranger who knows everything about them."

"And what makes you so frightening, Mr Holmes? I mean, you are the only stranger from whom I would bear to listen to my secrets."

" _Sherlock_? Really?" John asks perplexed.

"Sure. He reads everything, as he said. Nobody told him all that information. Instead, I'd be very upset if anyone else affirmed to know my secrets."

"Why?"

"Because that would mean that one of my friends betrayed me."

Sherlock looks away, chuckling.  
John, instead, tries to focus on her. "Well then. So, your name is Giulia, right?"

"Correct. And I think there are no more questions left. Your friend has just said everything you need to know, and even more."

"Yes, and I made offensive deductions, but you haven't left yet" Sherlock notices.

"I'm trying to determine if he was right."

John raises his eyebrows. "Who?"

Giulia begins to explain calmly, "Before walking in, I met a man who was literally running away from this flat."

"A megalomaniac without real aspirations who still lives with his mother" Sherlock intervenes.

"He told me _he_ is mad" she tells John stealing a glance at Sherlock.

The doctor can't help chortling, while the detective looks away remarking, "And you believe him."

"No, no, you aren't mad. I'd rather say _disrespectful_ of the people around you, unaware of their thoughts and feelings... no, not unaware, simply _careless_.  
I bet you could break someone's heart while smiling. You aren't cruel, though, just... _indifferent_."

"Are you trying to deduce me?"

"Deduce you? Not at all. I lack the ability to do so."

"Just observe, then."

"I **_am_** observing. And I've been listening to you all along."

"And?"

"I'd say that your original purpose was to amaze me."

" _Nope_. I just wanted to get rid of you."

"Yes, I'm sure. But you couldn't resist showing off, could you?"

"She's good, indeed. I totally agree" John comments surprised.

"I wanted you out of this flat. As I still do, _for the record_ " Sherlock snorts.

"That's exactly why you told me all those things: you wanted me to be astonished in front of your high intellect, and a bit terrified, if possible."

"Useless effort. Amazed people tend to get _clingy_."

"Amazed people become vulnerable. That's why everyone before me flew away."

"True. Vulnerability, weakness, uncertainty ... everyone fears them. Everyone is scared to death in front of them. Ever wondered why?" Sherlock asks her with fake interest.

"Because it feels like being a child in a world of adults. Terrifying, isn't it?"

"I suppose so, but I've never asked one."

"I've asked _you_."

"So, that's your idea about me: a child" he pronounces making a grimace.

"Quite accurate" John notes, enjoying the banter between them.

"You _must_ be. I mean, you see the world like nobody else; you do whatever you want when you want, careless of what people think. You say everything that crosses your mind just because you cannot restrain yourself, and you simply don't care. Yes, Mr Holmes, I think you are a child sometimes because you believe _this_ is the only way you can survive here."

"Do you intend to impress me?"

"Oh God, no. I've known you barely for ten minutes, but I'm pretty sure you can't be easily impressed. Am I wrong?"

"Probably your finest deduction so far."

"I think I made a mistake before, though. You aren't as everyone thinks" she corrects herself.

"Not a child, then?"

"Not a show-off. Well, of course, you do perform a lot in front of people, but you want to make a point, to prove something."

Sherlock gazes at her, inscrutable. "What" he doesn't even take the trouble of making it sound like a question.

"That you are the smartest person in the room."

"It's fairly obvious, isn't it? Why should I prove it to others?"

"Oh no, not to others. To yourself."

"I know I am."

"Then why have you tried so hard to convince me?" she sneers at him.

At that moment, John chips in the conversation. "Alright then."

Sherlock rolls up his eyes. "Please... I know perfectly well what you are going to say, ' _She is suitable_ '."

"Sorry, _suitable_ for what?" Giulia asks confused.

"Living here, apparently" Sherlock sighs.

"Come on, Sherlock. She is kind, polite, clever. She's a student, which means she has her own business to mind. Also, she doesn't seem to be annoyed by you, which is honestly the greatest requirement needed."

"So, you've decided, then" Sherlock notices blankly.

"I think I have" John smiles triumphantly.

"I'm sorry, you might want to discuss it together..." Giulia intervenes.

"Yes."

"No" John talks over Sherlock. "No, it won't be necessary. Welcome to Baker Street."


	5. 4 22C

The next day, Giulia goes back to Baker Street to settle every detail about the rent.

John receives her with a smile on his lips and helps her with her luggage.

"I didn't know you were ready to move in immediately", he says puffing and blowing under the weight of a heavy bag.

"I never really unpacked. I was staying in a hotel room and wasn't planning to spend there the whole semester."

"Right".

He pulls a key out of his pocket and puts it into the lock of the basement door.

"Look, it was pretty late, yesterday night, and I haven't explained you everything so here it is: this place is quite small, as you can see" he pronounces throwing open the door of 221C.

She steps into the tiny living room and turns around. "I like it anyway."

"Glad to hear that. Well, you've surely noticed it, but this isn't exactly a flat. There's just a bedroom, a bathroom, and this small entrance hall. You will share the kitchen and living room with us, upstairs. Hope it won't be a problem."

She disappears beyond a wooden door and re-emerges from the bedroom smiling satisfied. "It won't."

"Good... very good. So, that's it, then. I'll let you move in and finally unpack your bags."

He walks a few steps toward the main door, but she calls him back, "Ehm, John?"

"Yes?"

"We didn't really discuss the rent. Yesterday you said it wasn't expensive... what did you mean by that?"

"Can you cook?"

"Yes, sure."

"And would you mind tidying things up, every now and then, just helping us with shared spaces?"

"Not at all. It's ok for me."

"I'm sure we will find an affordable deal, then". He winks at her and leaves.

A second later, he reappears on the threshold.  
"Come up, when you're finished. I'll make you a cup of tea."

"Thanks, John."

He smiles slightly and disappears again.

She collapses onto the bed and sighs relieved.

For the first time since she left Italy, she doesn't feel out of place at all. That minuscule room almost smells like a real home.


	6. 5 Chase

Some days later, early in the afternoon, Giulia appears in the living room of 221B wearing her coat and scarf.

"Hanging out with some friends?" John asks standing up from his armchair and stretching his back.

"I'm going out on my own, actually. I wanna stroll about and discover some new places."

"Didn't you go for a walk yesterday?"

"Yes, and the day before. What can say? I adore wandering around this city" she simply answers with a shrug.

"London is quite big: are you planning on visiting it all by walking?"

"Maybe, who knows? See you later, guys!" she says before disappearing down the stairs.

John gives ear to her footsteps and mutters, "I'm embarrassed to say it out loud, but I still have doubts."

Sherlock, who has remained silent until this moment, grumbles idly, "I won't explain to you this morning case again. Ask Lestrade for clarification."

He finishes his sentence and considers confused his own words.

John ignores his comment and notes, "I was talking about Giulia."

"I thought _you_ chose her."

"To be precise, she was the only possible choice since everyone else literally legged it out of this flat. I was simply pointing out that we don't know her very well... _Yet_."

"If you don't like her, there's still time to kick her out."

John turns to face him. "No, Sherlock. I just mean that she looks _suspicious_ , sometimes."

"How?"

"She often goes on long walks, and God knows where she roams and who she meets".  
He moves closer to the window and looks down on the street.

Sherlock rolls up his eyes, " _You_ could know it, too. Ask her."

"I don't want to sound intimidating."

"Believe me, you really wouldn't."

John looks directly into his eyes, "The point is that I am not completely sure we can trust her."

"She's not a threat."

"How would you know?"

"I deduced her" Sherlock replies firmly, almost offended.

"I'm sorry, but it isn't a certainty."

Sherlock suddenly raises his head and glares at him. The doctor doesn't bat an eyelid and retorts, "Remember Jim Moriarty?"

Sherlock's expression changes immediately after that mention.

John argues disapprovingly, "A criminal mastermind, the most dangerous man we'd ever met...  
and the only thing you deduced out of him on your first meeting was his sexual orientation."

Sherlock rides the rap, but replies, "She is not like Jim Moriarty."

John observes her ambling into the distance, then asks, "Where do you think she's going?"

"Why don't you follow her and find it out by yourself?" his friend answers ironically.

"Precisely my thoughts."

Sherlock looks at him in disbelief, "Are you serious?"

"I just need to check" John tries to explain.

"If it makes you feel better..."

John takes his jacket from the coat rack and asks innocently, "You are not coming then?"

"On a manhunt for our new flatmate?"

"Have you better things to do?"

Sherlock stares at him and wrinkles his nose, "Don't know. Is it possible to die of boredom, _doctor_?"

John smiles, and they rush downstairs together.

Once out in the street, they go in the same direction as Giulia, trying to spot her in the middle of a crowd of pedestrians.

"Here she is; I recognise her coat" Sherlock exclaims vaguely excited.

The streets of London are his battlefield, that's a fact.

The two men start to follow her keeping their distance.

It isn't a difficult task after all, and Sherlock gets bored soon.

"Can we go back to the flat now?"

"Why?", John constantly keeps an eye on the girl and never looks away.

"Because this is utterly pointless. We've been following her for almost an hour, and she hasn't done anything else but walking, looking around and taking photos. I see nothing suspicious in it."

"She might plan to go to a specific meeting point."

"Given the route she's made so far, I highly doubt it" Sherlock snorts.

"Ok. And what if she's going to meet someone, maybe an enemy of ours?"

"Under the London Eye? How daring of her! It's not really a secluded place for a secret meeting."

"Alright. I simply want to check. Just a few more miles, then we're back to the flat" John announces trying to keep pace with Giulia.

Two hours later, they finally reach Baker Street while Giulia, some steps ahead of them, unlocks the front door.

Sherlock scowls at John and complains, " _Just a few more miles,_ right? I hadn't been on such a ridiculous chase since the day we followed that taxi."

"It was the day we moved to Baker Street" John recalls.

"Yes, and I have never been more pleased to come back home."

He steps forward, but John gets hold of his arm and whispers, "Wait. We can't enter so soon after her; that could seem fishy."

"For God's sake, John! At this point, I couldn't care less."

"Ten minutes, please" John begs.

"Fine! But not a minute longer."

After what looks like an eternity, they climb up the stairs and get in the living room, completely worn out.

Giulia turns to them with a smile and greets, "Evening. I was sure to find you at home when I came back. Were you two on a case?"

"Erm... yes, yes. The usual, you know" John replies absent-mindedly.

"Of course. Murder, this time?" she inquires.

"Yep."

"You look awful: was it so distressing?"

"A bit tiring, yeah" John murmurs sinking heavily in his armchair.

"And did you move a lot around the city?"

"I'd say so."

Giulia steps into the kitchen but re-emerges soon after. "Oh, I almost forgot ... Next time we're going to Notting Hill, ok? It was a shame we couldn't walk down there, today."

John raises his head, dazed, " _We_?"

Sherlock sighs taking off his coat. "When did you realise we were following you?"

"Twenty minutes after I had left this flat. You aren't too good at tailing people" she replies shaking her head.

"So you didn't have to go on such an endless walk!" John howls exhausted.

"I'm glad you got it, in the end. I hadn't planned to wander for so long, but I did want to see how far you could go. Sort of a test. And revenge, of course."

John rubs his sore feet. "Well, I'm sure you are waiting for an apology. We're very sorry; we should have never done it."

"You really shouldn't: wasted effort. You could have just asked me. Luckily, there's still time. I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

"Can we trust you?" Sherlock intervenes bluntly.

Giulia tilts her head. "Wrong question."

"Why?"

"Because you don't directly ask someone if he is trustworthy; they will always tell you so, then let you down. So, I kindly suggest that you look at me and decide it by yourselves."

Sherlock stares back at her, " _I am_ looking at you. But I am interested in your opinion, too."

"Yes. Of course, you can. I am a loyal person, always have been. Besides, I wouldn't have any interest in betraying you."

"You are vengeful, though" John breathes out.

"I am. But my anger blows over in a second."

She goes into the kitchen and comes out with a tray full of biscuits. "Are you hungry?"

"Not really" Sherlock mumbles sitting down.

"Okay. I'll leave them here, _just in case_ " she says placing the tray on the tea table.

John looks at it and his eyes light up. "Where did you buy them?"

"You know I didn't; you followed me for miles on end. I baked them myself the moment I got home."

Sherlock steals a glance at the food and comments, "Did you add poison?"

Giulia smacks her forehead, "Poison! Here's what was missing from the recipe; I _knew_ I had forgotten something."

"You don't seem to appreciate my humour."

"Not at all. I'm just considering the distinctive flavour it would have given them."

Sherlock waits a moment, then stretches his hand and catches a biscuit. "I'll have one, anyway. Just to check; I don't want you to poison both me and John."

She rolls up her eyes, "I thought that _John_ was the one with trust issues."

The doctor smiles and takes a fistful of them, "Since I'm starving, I think I'd rather be poisoned right now."

He eats a few morsels and adds, "It wouldn't be the first time a flatmate of mine tries to poison me, by the way."

Sherlock turns to him and claims, "You mean at Dartmoor? It turned out it wasn't a hallucinogenic drug, in the end."

"But you thought it was in the sugar and deliberately put it into my coffee!"

"I needed answers, John."

"So you chose me as your lab rat?"

"Not again, please!" Sherlock sighs tiredly.

"You two are _impossible_!" Giulia comments lying down on the couch and observing them fighting.

"Welcome to our world, stranger" Sherlock winks at her.


	7. 6 Family strife

One week later, Giulia has definitely settled in Baker Street. She attends university lectures every morning, then goes back to the flat and cooks something for her flatmates (basically for John, since Sherlock only has a quick snack, at most). She studies in the shared living room, which can be either a peaceful heaven or a messy, noisy hell, depending on the circumstances.

Sometimes, Sherlock just lies on the couch for hours without moving or even uttering a sound, deeply sank in his thoughts, lost inside the corridors of his mind palace. That seems like a dream to Giulia, who can easily focus on her homework, while John silently reads the news or goes out.

Often, however, John and Sherlock are busy receiving crowds of clients. Those poor people are forced to sit on a chair between the two armchairs and tell their stories while the two men decide whether to take their cases or not. Sherlock always raises hell; he examines his clients like lab rats, he is never satisfied and usually kicks them out unceremoniously. At times, Giulia gives up and goes to her room, but the continuous coming and going up the staircase distracts her anyway.

Today is a good one, though; Sherlock is lying down with his eyes closed, and John sits thoughtfully in his armchair.

"How can they always be so difficult? I'd really like to be able to finish this bloody thing, sooner or later" John grumbles placing the newspaper on the tea table.

Giulia raises her head from the books, "What's the matter?"

"Just a crossword puzzle. I try to complete this sort of games on a daily basis, but they aren't easy at all."

"Can I give it a try?"

He gazes confused at her. "You think you can beat a native speaker in crosswords in his language?"

"Crosswords are only 20% about language skills and 70% about general knowledge" she replies firmly.

"There's still 10% left."

"Intuition."

He hands her the newspaper with a sceptical look. "Oh, here it is: Greek Titan forced to support the sky on his shoulders. Easy: it's Atlas."

She takes a pencil and writes down the definition.

"There's another blank space" John points out. "Something about astronomy. I don't have a clue..."

"Let's see: the brightest star in the constellation _Lyra_. I thought it was Sirius, also named 'the Dogstar', but it doesn't fit... Got it! V-E-G-A. Vega. Here you are" she gives back the newspaper with a triumphant smile.

"You simply got lucky. I had nearly completed it" John complains disheartened.

"Can't you two _be quiet_ for just a second?" Sherlock suddenly loses it and springs to his feet.

Giulia turns mortified to him, "Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you."

"Too late. I'll have a shower; hopefully, the only place where I'll find peace" he pronounces walking nonchalantly on the small table and marching out the living room.

"Don't pay attention to him: he's just nervous because he can't find a proper case" John sighs grimacing.

"But a thousand clients visited him during the past week!" she remarks.

"Nothing interesting, _in his opinion_. He is still looking for a good murder to come up... It didn't sound good, did it?"

"I've learnt not to ask questions and to pretend I didn't hear anything."

"Fine. I'll do some shopping, then."  
John stands up and takes his coat.

"You'll find me here" Giulia smiles at him.

A few moments later, the door opens wide to reveal an elegant man in a waistcoat who clears his throat and casually walks into the flat.

"Hello?" Giulia asks confused.

He looks down at her and smiles falsely, "Good afternoon. I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes."

"Whoever comes here is. He'll show up in a moment. You can take a seat in the meanwhile" she points at the interrogation-chair in the middle of the living room.  
Although, the man doesn't move.

"Or you could just stand there" she adds trying to sound polite.

"It's rather urgent."

"That's what every client says" she replies starting to get annoyed.

"I'm not a client. I'm his brother, Mycroft."

She stares at him for a second and murmurs, "Oh, sorry! Would you mind showing me a personal ID?"

Mycroft freezes and stands still as if he was hit by lightning.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You've just said you're his brother, but he's never talked about you. It's not that I don't trust your statement, just... Can you provide any proof?"

"What?! I don't have to prove you that I am who I say I am."

"Haughty, scornful and... with an umbrella. You definitely fit his description."

"So he _told_ you about me, indeed" he replies outraged.

"I think _complaining_ would be more suitable, but yes, of course, he did. I'm not authorised to let strangers in."

"By the way, who are you?"

"Giulia, the new resident of 221C. Enchanted" she introduces herself and bends her head.

In that moment, Sherlock bursts into the living room.

"Hello, Mycroft. I see you've met Giulia."

"Yes. _Lovely girl_. She asked me for an ID."

"Good, I told her so. I'm very curious to know what's written on your business card. Which government are you currently working for?" the younger Holmes asks pouring himself a cup of tea.

"Ours, as always" Mycroft answers peeved.

"And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"Business."

"What a relief! I was really afraid you were attempting to transform our blood connection into a real brotherhood."

"Between us? Not a chance, brother mine. But I need your _expertise_ " the elder Holmes hesitates on the last word.

Sherlock wrinkles his nose, "I'm busy. I'm always busy for you. You know the way out."

"I'm here to give you a case. I thought you'd be pleased."

"With what, your exploitation? No, thanks."

"You don't even know what it is about" Mycroft snaps.

"I don't have to. Let me guess... a matter of national importance?"

" _International_."

"Still not interested."

"Sherlock..." he begins vexed.

"Are you going to beg me?" Sherlock interrupts.

"Certainly _not_ " he replies firmly.

"Thank goodness! I thought it for a second. Thank you for dropping by, Mycroft. Hope won't happen again. Goodbye, _brother dear_ " Sherlock stands by the door and keeps it open, hinting at the stairs.

Mycroft approaches him and smiles, "Brother mine, we'll keep in touch."

"I don't think so" Sherlock replies and slams the door.

Giulia looks at him in despair. "You weren't very kind."

"He is my brother; I don't have to."

"Maybe he had something worthing your time."

Suddenly, Sherlock's phone starts to ring. "No, he didn't, but _this man_ might."

He places it near his ear and answers, "Hello?"

"Sherlock..." a male voice speaks on the other side.

"Murder?" the detective immediately asks, getting straight to the point.

"Suicide."

"Jump off a bridge? Gun to the temple?"

"Poison."

He rolls up his eyes, "Dull."

"I think you might like it, though. And I need your help" the voice sighs.

"Where?"

"Fifteen minutes away from your home. I'll text you the details."

"It'd better be good."

"You've never seen something like that, that's sure."

Sherlock hangs up and wears his coat.

"Was it a client?" Giulia inquires hopefully.

"Better. It was a Scotland Yard officer."

"Good news?"

"Excellent. There's been a suicide." Sherlock smiles rubbing his hands.

"I thought your speciality was murders and kidnappings."

"There's probably more. There must be something wrong about this death. See you then."

"Bye. Have fun!" she waves at him.

"I will" he affirms before disappearing down the stairs.


	8. 7 At the very last moment

Sherlock leaves the flat and hails a cab.

He receives a text from D.I. Lestrade with an address and an image of a missing person report.  
He looks intently at it.

 ** _NAME_** _(last/first): Baaral Cathy_  
 ** _SEX_** _: F_  
 ** _EYES_** _: Brown._  
 ** _HAIR_** _: Black._  
 ** _BLOOD TYPE_** _: A-plus_  
 ** _FINGERPRINTS AVAILABLE?_** _Yes._

At the top right corner, there is a photo, more specifically a freeze-frame from a security footage.  
The resolution of the image is not very clear, but it is still possible to distinguish the features of her face quite accurately.

That's all. Basically a form full of blank spaces and incomplete information.  
No details about her date or place of birth; nothing about her race or nationality.

Sherlock takes a moment to analyse those scarce data, then phones the inspector.

"Where are you?" the same hoarse voice asks abruptly.

"On my way. Listen, where is the sensitive information? Her age, hometown, employment?"

"We don't have it."

"What does it mean?"

"That's all we have about her."

"You are the police! You must have additional sources" Sherlock retorts.

"Of course, we have. And I checked everywhere, I swear. Nothing else. She's like a ghost... well, she _was_."

"So, how on earth can you know her blood type?"

"It was on a medical report from a hospital where she had a checkup two years ago."

"What about her disappearance? Who reported her missing?"

"No idea. Confidentiality policy: we cannot trace the calls."

"Why the freeze-frame? Was the police keeping an eye on her?" the detective starts to lose his temper.

"Not directly, but I'd prefer not to discuss it on the phone."

"I'll be there in a minute; just trying to save time. My _precious_ time."

Sherlock hangs up precisely when the cab stops in front of a tall building.

"Sherlock!"  
A tall man with grizzled hair waves at him from the doorstep and points at the entrance, "This way."

Sherlock easily reaches him and goes inside. They climb to the first floor, while the inspector leads the way.

"Have you touched anything?" Sherlock inquires walking into a tiny flat. He looks around processing every detail.

At the centre of the room, the corpse of a young woman lies on a carpet. Sherlock glances at her and immediately recognises the face he has just seen in the freeze-frame attached to the text.

"Nothing at all. My men preserved the scene exactly the way it was when we found the corpse, early this morning."

He sharply turns around, "Morning? It's five o' clock in the afternoon, now. Why haven't you called me earlier?"

"It didn't seem necessary."

Sherlock raises his eyebrows with his air of superiority.

"It looked like a common suicide, no need for _great experts_ " Lestrade adds grimacing.

The consulting detective rolls up his eyes and then frowns. "What changed, then?"

"We got lab results. Quite shocking."

"Why? Was she an addict? A haemophiliac?"

The inspector is about to reply, but Sherlock cuts him short. "No, don't answer. I need to concentrate. So, she rushed in her home..."

He steps forward trying to reconstruct her last moments. "She didn't open the front door; she thrust it aside. The door slammed into the wall, the frame broke into a thousand pieces and the painting fell on the floor."

While speaking, he squats down by a bunch of broken shards of glass and carefully pulls out a sheet.

It looks like a poster which represents an entrenched beach, several warships and an air fleet. The bold word ' **D-Day** ' stands out.

He continues his lucid stream of consciousness, "She ignored the mess, of course; she was running out of time. _She had to die_. Right then, just a few moments before swallowing the poison that would eventually kill her, she left a message."

"A message?" Lestrade looks bewildered at him.

"A note, to be precise. Now the question is: where are her last words?"

"Sherlock, what are you talking about? There wasn't any note."

"But she wrote it! We know she did. There are traces of ink on the fingers of her right hand. Only a fountain pen would leave those marks. And what a chance!" he exclaims ironically. "There is a fountain pen in the furthest corner of the room. It must have been easy to throw it there while standing in the middle of the living room."

He stands by the lying woman and simulates the scene.

"And look at the desk; that organiser is open at a ripped page. She was in a hurry, remember? And she needed to hide some information. She could have taken the whole sheet - that would have most likely gone unnoticed. But no, she only needed a small piece of paper, easy to hide. Where is it?"

"It could be everywhere" the inspector comments scratching his head.

" _Wrong_. Not everywhere. She was staying in this exact spot and never moved from here. It's on the body" he concludes.

The grey-haired man wrinkles his nose, "You're not planning on searching a corpse, are you?"

"No need for a random search. One of her shoes is unlaced."

"It untied in the rush, perhaps?"

"Untied? Look at the other foot: she used to knot laces twice. It is not a coincidence: _she_ undid it."

Sherlock crouches down next to the woman and gently slips her shoe off.

"Why did she do it?" Lestrade asks confused.

"In order to hide her message" the detective pronounces while drawing out a note.

Sherlock spreads the creased paper on the inside of his palm and reads it out loud.

 _"My dear,_  
 _Please, forgive me for all the trouble_ _and pain this is most certainly going_ _to cause you._  
 _I wish we had had a normal life, a_ _normal relationship, like any other_ _person on the face of the earth._  
 _But we were meant for something_ _bigger and this project, that kept us_ _so close, is going to draw us apart_  
 _forever._

 _Best of luck, my love._  
 _I'll be waiting for you on the other_ _side; take your time._  
 _xx"_


	9. 8 The impossible

"Cryptic, way too much" Sherlock mumbles thoughtful looking down at the note. "She was in a hurry and she only left what seems to be a useless message before taking her own life. And yet she went to a lot of trouble to hide it."

He wanders for a while, pacing the floor. Then he raises his head and opens his eyes wide.

"Oh! Someone was hunting after her! She knew they would have eventually found her. So she came here and wrote those words for a _very specific_ person.  
It's not a common suicidal note; this one was meant to be extremely personal. And for some reason, she didn't want her chasers to read it."

He makes a pause before whispering, "Someone wanted her dead."

Lestrade frowns, "And she preferred to kill herself?"

Sherlock gives him a grim look, "She wasn't afraid of dying, but she feared something worse."

"Worse than death?"

"Torture."

The inspector sighs and tosses his head, "Why would someone torture her?"

"To get information" Sherlock replies as if it was crystal clear.

"Right... and what kind of information?"

"About a terrorist attack. It's obvious, isn't it?" intervenes a nasal voice belonging to a man with short, brown hair, who has just entered the room. The man is undoubtedly on forensics, for he is wearing a coverall and a pair of latex gloves.

"Where did you dig out this brilliant idea, Anderson?" Sherlock asks ironically.

"From the piece of evidence gathered in this house and from the security footages in nearby stores. Several cameras caught her with a group of disreputable men. Scotland Yard has been suspecting some individuals of terroristic affiliations, so we have been monitoring them."  
Anderson leans arrogantly against the wall.

"She wasn't a terrorist. Terrorists do not commit suicide without causing damages and casualties. She was simply on the run" the detective affirms confidently. "Cathy Baaral wasn't a terrorist" he remarks.

"I don't know that, but I can say that you got something wrong. This woman isn't Cathy Baaral" Lestrade shakes his head staring at the corpse.

Sherlock looks disoriented at him; then he fishes his phone out of his pocket, opens the photo attached to Lestrade's text and compares it with the victim's face.  
"Of course, she is."

 _"That's_ what I tried to tell you just a few moments ago, but you interrupted me with your _deductions_. Everyone believed so. Then we got lab results."

Sherlock freezes. "The DNA doesn't match?"

"It does. But the fingerprints don't."

He is visibly confused, "I'm not following you. How's it possible?"

"Because this woman is Cathy Baaral's secret twin."


	10. 9 Sibling troubles

The unexpected announcement upsets Sherlock.  
He doesn't stir even an eyelash, he barely breathes.

Anderson intervenes to scientifically explain the situation, "As far as we can get from lab results, they are ... _were_ monozygotic twins, who are genetically nearly identical.  
The DNA is very similar, practically the same, with just slight differences only detectable through the analysis of single-nucleotide polymorphism.  
Identical twins, however, do not have the same fingerprints. The contact with different parts of the environment inside the womb produces small variations in the same digital, making them unique."

He makes a pause to let him grasp the concept, then he adds, "I think this is all the medical knowledge you might need in order to believe we aren't lying."

Sherlock breathes heavily and protests, "It's never twins."

Lestrade shrugs his shoulders, "Apparently, this time it is."

"How can there be no record about it? Nobody could hide such a crucial information, unless..." he stops talking mid-sentence, while a distinct scene comes back to his mind.

He suddenly sees his brother standing in his living room again, leaning on his umbrella, trying to hide anguish and concern.  
He relives their conversation through the memory.

 _/_  
 _"I'm here to give you a case..."_ his elder brother had said.  
 _[...] "National importance?"_  
 _"International."_  
/

He is struck by a sudden revelation and mutters, "Wait, What poison?"

Lestrade raises his eyes on him, "Sorry?"

"What was the poison that killed her? Give me the lab results!" Sherlock shouts out.

Anderson disappears in the adjacent room and re-emerges a second later, holding a folder. He hands it to  
Sherlock without a word.

The detective skims the report, looking for a particular substance in the bloodstream of the victim, then he tilts his head and closes his eyes.  
"Mycroft" he murmurs.

The inspector scowls when he catches that name, "What? Your brother?"

"I have to go."  
Sherlock almost throws the folder to him and rushes down the stairs until the ground floor.

He takes his phone and dials a number while marching hastily in the street.

"I'm busy, dear brother. Try to call me on another day, or another life" sighs an irritated voice on the other end of the line.

"Mycroft, I think I've just run up against the case you wanted to give me earlier."

"I can't speak now, Sherlock" Mycroft cuts him short.

"I need more information about them. I need to know where she..."

"I said I can't speak, for God's sake! We've just found a mole in our system. I can't speak on the phone, I can't communicate through telegrams or letters, and I certainly cannot meet you in person right now. Everything is compromised and I must sort it out.  
You are on your own. Do whatever it takes, but hurry up; we're running out of time."  
He hangs up right away.

"No, Sherlock, wait!"  
Lestrade has followed him in the street and reaches him running.

"You can't go now. We've just started" he puffs.

"I'm done here. There's nothing of any importance."

"There is a dead woman lying inside that flat, and another one is still missing!" the inspector asserts out loud.

Sherlock shoots him a withering look. "I can assure you the worst is yet to come."


End file.
